


Mac and Dennis Plan a Wedding

by mxingno



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Actual Marriage, Fake Marriage, M/M, Unicorn Frappuccino, canon-typical bigotry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 16:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10902918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxingno/pseuds/mxingno
Summary: “Jesus Christ, Charlie, this isn’t about banging -- it’s about two men, who have been living together for years anyway, taking advantage of government handouts while winning an argument. Don’tcheapenthis, okay?”





	Mac and Dennis Plan a Wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hyrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyrude/gifts).



> My prompt was as follows: 'Mac and Dennis get "fake" married as part of a scam, except for the authenticity of it, they just. Literally get married.' Outside of the canon-typical homophobia, sexism etc, no warnings apply.
> 
> Infinite gratitudes to [underwooding](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/underwooding) for an incredible beta job, and to [infinitevariety](http://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitevariety/) for moral support and encouragement throughout.

“Wow,” says the waitress, and looks at Dennis like he’s shit on her shoe. Mac thinks it’s total bullshit. If Dennis could be bothered to try to bang her anymore, Mac knows she’d be all over him in half a goddamn second. “ _Wow_. Even for you two assholes, that’s, like, impressively gross.”

“Gross?” Dennis demands, like they’re not in a Starbucks, like people aren’t going to stare the second he raises his voice. As hilarious as it is to pick fights with the waitress, Mac literally just wanted a cup of coffee, and it is looking more and more like he’s not going to get it. “A man can’t make an observation about a caffeinated drink anymore?”

“Not when it’s pretty much all the way homophobic,” she says, and folds her arms. “Or are you trying to say that ‘the unicorn frappuccino is the limp-wristed twink of the coffee world’ is just an innocent observation?” 

And yeah, okay, they’ve got this one after all. Mac has never been readier to jam something right in someone’s face. It kind of sucks that it’s the waitress’s face, rather than the face of someone who can really appreciate an awesome comeback, but he’ll deal with it; it’s whatever. 

“Whoa,” he says, and folds his arms right back at her. Take that. “You’re accusing a gay man of being homophobic? What’s the _real_ hate crime here, waitress?”

She sees the arm-fold and raises him a really nasty eye-roll. “Your tattoos. Like, they were already a douchebag seal of approval in 2005, and they’ve literally only gotten shittier since. What’s Dennis’s excuse, if you’ve got some kind of get-out-of-bullshit-free card now?”

Dennis blinks. What are those jungle animals with the big round bug-eyes? He’s double-chinning a little bit; it’s not a great look on him. “My excuse? My excuse, waitress, is -- I’m _also_ gay.”

There is not even a word in English for what Mac’s whole body does, the way it tries to explode and shrink down to nothing in the same split second. Is it a joke? There’s basically no way it’s not a joke. His heart’s going to burst out of his chest like the alien in the movie, which will be totally badass except for how he’s definitely going to die. “How about that, huh?” Dennis continues, like he’s really hitting his stride. “You’re just gonna stand here in public and accuse two gay men of being homophobic? I don’t know. Seems pretty _gross_ to me.”

“Yeah,” Mac agrees, though his voice feels like it’s not even coming from him anymore. He’s running hot, suddenly, the kind of hot that makes fire go blue at the centre; maybe it _is_ a joke, but it’s a joke he’s part of, and there are so many places he can make it go. Like a bottle spinning in a circle, he stops short, and picks one. “And you know what really gets me, Dennis? You know what _really_ grinds my gears, is that I was getting set to pop the question while we were out today, and this _oppression_ has totally killed my mood. It’s dead, Dennis! The mood is dead.”

“The mood is dead,” Dennis repeats, with a kind of gravitas that silences the increasingly angry line of people behind them. He’s playing along, he’s actually _doing_ it, and it’s such a goddamn rush. They fell out of the habit of this kind of scam after Dennis nearly banged a tiny Asian boy, but now they’re back at it again it’s hard to remember why; it’s so dumb that they ever stopped doing something this awesome. Mac is still proud of Vic Vinegar, bodyguard slash realtor slash pastel sweater-vest enthusiast. “She killed the mood. You’ve cheated me out of a public goddamn proposal, waitress--”

“Still not my name--”

“--and you know what? I won’t stand for it.” Dennis glares and it’s like an act of God; he turns to Mac, drops to one knee on the filthy laminated floor, and all of a sudden there’s an awestruck hush over the whole stupid place. Mac is a car spinning out of control on a freeway, frictionless as he rockets toward the aftermath, everything in him screaming and screaming as he tries to hold himself together. If he even thinks about blinking then this will all disappear, and so he keeps his eyes on Dennis, keeps his feet planted firmly on the ground. “Mac,” says Dennis, the familiar glint of a challenge bright in his eyes, “baby, will you marry me?”

“Uh,” says Mac, and unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I -- yes?”

The line behind them completely erupts, cheering and clapping like a sitcom laugh-track. Dennis grabs Mac’s wrist, hauls himself unsteadily up to his feet; Mac feels slow and heavy, like all that adrenaline has been sucked out of him vampire-style. He leans expectantly in toward Dennis, except Dennis isn’t even looking at him anymore; he’s smirking at the waitress like the cat that got the cream. The waitress is completely unmoved. “There’s no way,” she declares. She’s not even _looking_ at the line; it’s just bad customer service, at this point. “There is no goddamn way you two assholes are getting married.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dennis grins. It’s all teeth, it doesn’t even touch his eyes. It’s like the Center City jackoffs who show up at the bar sometimes, like they want to pretend they’re tough but they’re totally scared shitless, so they put on these big fake-ass smiles and make like they’re so much better than Mac. Except it’s cool when Dennis does it, somehow. “You just got yourself invited to the wedding. Bitch.”

They leave with real masculine Americanos in their hands and the goodwill of almost the whole branch of Starbucks behind them. “Dude,” says Dennis, who is clearly still riding that high, eyes bright and almost painfully manic. “Mac, that was _genius_ , holy shit -- like, that’s a guaranteed win. If we literally get married, right in her goddamn face--”

“Wait,” says Mac, struggling to keep up. “Wait, you mean we’re _literally_ getting married? I thought--”

“What? You thought we’d just get some fake trash rings and hope she bought it?” Dennis scoffs. “You gotta think long-term, bro. Think about it. We get married, we hold it over the waitress for the rest of her life, _and_ we tap into all the benefits married couples get? There’s a reason everyone’s doing this shit, dude. Yeah,” he says, and the mania is solidifying, now; it’s turning into real determination, which means Mac’s started something he has basically no way of stopping. “Yeah, if I play my cards right here, I think this is gonna be a real opportunity.”

He’s got a point. Mac is not the sort of man who has a lot of opportunities coming his way; this is basically a freebie. It would be dumb as shit to question it too hard. “Okay,” he says, and clutches his coffee a little tighter; it’s hot, dangerously so, in his hand. “What the hell. Let’s plan a goddamn wedding.”

“I call Charlie for best man,” says Mac, once they’ve gotten through the recap and fielded all the stupid pointless questions about _why_ and _how_ and _did she mention me._ Immediately Dennis pivots on his stool, a look of total betrayal on his face. “What? We really don’t have a deep bench right now, dude.”

“Well, what about me?” demands Dennis, and they all sort of stare at him for a moment, while he bristles with irritation and glares them down. “We always _said_ we’d be each other’s best men, Mac. You’re just going to break that blood pact like it’s nothing?”

“You’re a _groom_ ,” says Dee, really hitting her goddamn high notes over it, and Mac feels his bones sort of scrape together in protest under his skin. “You can’t be the best man _and_ the groom, Dennis. Jesus Christ, have you ever even _been_ to a wedding?”

Dennis’s cheeks get all hot. “I’ve been to a wedding,” he snaps, and Mac’s pretty sure it’s true, except the wedding was the one they had back at the party mansion, where his real dad made Dee and Frank kiss on the mouth. So basically the worst wedding ever. Precedent is precedent, and they don’t exactly have the greatest track record in the world for getting shit right, but as bars go, the Dee-Seamus scam-wedding is as low as it physically gets. “And I don’t see why Mac gets frankly the only viable best man candidate we have. What am _I_ supposed to do, Deandra? Let Frank plan my bachelor party?”

Frank spits out what Mac really hopes is a pistachio shell. What doesn’t stick to his mouth ends up skittering over the floor, like gross spit-coated bugs. “Easy,” he says, through a mouthful of nut. “Strip club, uppers, bridge -- that order.”

Dennis gestures one-handed in his general direction. “Do you see?” he demands. “Do you see what I have to work with here?”

“Or,” says Dee, and she is definitely doing the voice she thinks is like a supervillain voice, and it’s weird as shit like it always is, “you could put aside the thought of a _best man_ altogether, dear brother, and--”

“Dee,” says Charlie, “Dee, holy shit, you _really_ wanna clear your throat or something, your voice is just _super_ bad right now--”

“You could have a maid of honour, instead,” she says, retreating back to her normal voice as a hint of a flush creeps up her gross bird neck. “I’m _great_ at parties, Dennis, you know I am. We can hit up a comedy club, you can get blasted, I’ll hook you up with some crack or whatever, and we can share it, and we can totally rage…”

It’s sort of pathetic, really. Dennis doesn’t look impressed. “Do you promise not to wear a goddamn costume?”

“Yes,” she says instantly, like she hasn’t got her fingers crossed behind the bar.

“Done,” says Dennis, and Dee grins with all her weird bird teeth. “But I want the _good_ crack, Dee, I swear to God.”

Frank hawks another shell right across the room. “You can’t just get this shit over with?” he asks. “You gotta think about the financials here. All this crack, all this bachelor-party horseshit, you’re gonna bankrupt yourself before you even tie the knot.” He pops another pistachio into his mouth. Dennis’s lips twitch down in disgust. “You want my advice? Get down to the courthouse. Take a half-day. Sign whatever you gotta sign, jam it in whoever’s face you wanna jam, save us all a bunch of time. Weddings are a goddamn racket.”

“First of all,” says Dennis, “no, I do not want your advice, oh my God, your advice is horrible and you are disgusting. Second of all: are you _fucking_ kidding me? If we’re getting married -- which, to be clear, we _are_ getting married -- we’re doing it right. It’s going to be classy. It’s going to be dignified.” Mac nods along; his mouth is all smiling, like his face muscles are too strong to stop. He never got into fairy stories as a kid -- even back then, it seemed like some unicorn-frappuccino bullshit to him -- but this one’s awesome, like a choose-your-own-adventure with a huge, spectacular party at the end. “It is going to be a five-star wedding and you are _not_ going to ruin it with your horrible, horrible ideas. Okay?”

Charlie looks from Dennis to Mac, and then back again. “Did you guys even bang yet?”

“No!” It’s Mac’s turn to hit the high note -- no way will Dennis see this through if he thinks he has to bang Mac to make it work. There’s a line to walk here, like Johnny Cash; maybe if he walks it well enough then Dennis will even let him put some Cash on the wedding playlist. “Jesus Christ, Charlie, this isn’t about banging -- it’s about two men, who have been living together for years anyway, taking advantage of government handouts while winning an argument. Don’t _cheapen_ this, okay?”

“Let’s be clear,” snaps Dennis. “Let’s get this completely goddamn straight. The fact that I’m a reasonable man with high standards does not make this anything other than a big scam. We’re showing up your goddamn waitress and we’re getting some sweet, sweet tax breaks on the side. That’s the whole scheme. But we _also_ get a once-in-a-lifetime shot at a completely awesome party where everyone has to buy us shit and get wasted, and I am not blowing that shot, okay? We are going to _win_ at marriage. We are going to meet and exceed my expectations for the most important day of my life. That’s just what’s going to happen, because I will not stand for less. Are you getting it?”

Mac’s face muscles have sort of given up -- it’s one thing to know that a scam is just a scam, and a very different, much worser thing to have it spelled out right in his face. Still. There’s something to be said for a sweet-ass party, free shit included. He slams his beer, gestures to Dee for a refill; as schemes go, it’s definitely not their worst.

* * *

“Caterer’s coming at two,” says Dennis, as he hangs up the phone, and Mac feels his heart sink like the goddamn Titanic. “And I swear to God, Mac, if these people aren’t prepared to provide the customer service we deserve on our wedding day, I will run them out of here with their own goddamn sample tray, and I will one-star them into _oblivion_ online.”

This is going to be the third caterer Dennis tries to physically fight. Mac doesn’t believe in fortune-telling or any of that bullshit -- God hates the zodiac, that’s definitely a big part of being a Christian -- but he’s pretty sure he’s already flashing forward to the post-catering wreckage of their apartment, and then to Dennis’s inevitable week-long sulk. “Oh,” he says, “dude, I’m actually -- I’m actually gonna be out today.” He doesn’t even believe himself. Across the room, Dennis narrows his eyes.

“So you’re just gonna go out while I stay here and fix up our wedding,” he says. His voice is the kind of quiet that means there’s a full-on screaming fit waiting in the wings. Maybe Mac could call the caterer, warn them off before they get into the line of fire. “I see how it is, Mac. As _usual_ , you’re gonna let me do the hard work, while you contribute nothing--”

“Actually--” He is winging it so goddamn hard. It’s a miracle that he even comes up with an excuse, never mind a good one. “Actually, I was gonna go look around for venues? We’re gonna want to lock that down now, before all the churches get booked out.”

Dennis pauses. For a moment, time stops dead. “Okay,” he says, grudgingly, after what feels like a million years. “Whatever. But do _not_ let them sell you on any decorating options, bro. I want complete creative control.”

He’s so busy feeling good about tricking Dennis that he forgets to think about where he can go. He’s walking on cruise control to his church, maybe halfway there, when he remembers that there’s no way he can ask them to host his gay wedding. He’s pretty sure he knows what the answer will be, and it would be super dumb, going out of his way just to see how angry the _no_ will be. The difficulty is that he doesn’t know the other churches in the neighbourhood, like, at all. Maybe he’ll pick one of them and the _no_ will happen and he won’t even know to expect it. Like a sneak attack. He wouldn’t be able to block; he wouldn’t even be able to try.

It’s pretty lonely for a minute or two, standing at a crosswalk with nowhere to go.

When he remembers, it’s like a bolt from the blue, like a genuine divine revelation. He _does_ know another church. It did almost drown him one time, sure, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t have beef with gays getting married. He shoots God a quick thumbs-up before he turns around, heads back the way he came; not only does he have a potential venue, he has an even longer reprieve from Dennis’s food bullshit. Clearly the big man upstairs, at least, is in a good mood today.

Scott and David recognise him on sight, which is totally legit; he’s a memorable guy. They don’t look especially thrilled to see him, though. “Mac,” says Scott, with a smile that’s trying a little too hard. “Wow. We, uh, we didn’t think we’d be seeing you again -- how’ve you been?”

He did sort of flip his shit in their bedroom while soaking wet and in the middle of a crisis of faith, and it did sort of end in a threeway. And the threeway did sort of wrap up prematurely after _maybe_ a minute and a half. It was two years ago, sure, but maybe they still get to look a little weirded-out. “I’ve been great,” he says, like everything’s cool, like if he acts the part hard enough then everything _will_ be. He wishes he’d worn another cologne. “I’ve been working out, and I won a bunch of money on a scratch card, and -- yeah, it’s awesome. Everything’s coming up Mac, you know? Plus--” The church feels weirdly big all around him, like it’s empty even though God is meant to live inside it. “Plus I’m getting married now,” he says. “So that’s a pretty big deal too, I guess.”

They look at each other, and they look back at Mac, like their faces can’t decide what muscles they ought to be using. “You’re getting married,” repeats David, in a voice that’s like if Charlie’s kitten mittens were a voice -- if his voice was a cat trying to walk across a table without falling. “That’s -- that’s awesome, Mac. Who’s the, uh, who’s the lucky lady? Someone we know, or...?”

“Oh!” He almost laughs, startled into relief; he can breathe like normal again, suddenly, like God let all the air back in. “Oh, no -- to a guy, definitely a guy! I would’ve said so, except I thought you guys could tell that stuff.”

Scott really _is_ laughing, his hand on David’s shoulder, something like pride in the way he clasps it there. It’s like getting blasted with a spotlight, all that joy because of something Mac -- not even did. Just something Mac is. “I guess you broke my gaydar, or something. That’s amazing news, Mac -- I gotta say, I’m proud of you.”

David is smiling, his eyes all crinkly at the corners. “You’ve come a long way,” he agrees, and laces his fingers in with Scott’s. They’re cute together, Mac thinks, the way they just smile at each other and touch each other like it’s just another language they’ve learned how to speak. Nobody’s backing away, or pushing just because they can. Dennis wouldn’t even know where to start with this level of completely sincere PDA, which he’s sort of always known, but the minute he thinks it his face gets super hot like a sunburn. “Did you want to check out our availability here? I mean, not to get the jump on your plans or anything, but we’d be really happy to have you if you did want a church wedding--”

“Are you kidding me?” he asks, happiness fizzing like soda under his skin. He shouldn’t even have doubted it; God’s here, and he’s super glad to see Mac where he belongs. “That’s the only kind of wedding that even counts.”

He gets back to the apartment late in the day, bursts in hot with news of their awesome venue and his super-helpful gay best friends. He doesn’t get far into the announcement. The apartment is a mess, broken glass and at least one knife glittering sharp-edged on the kitchen tiles, with what looks like congealing egg yolk splashed up all around the front door. No sign of Dennis except for an unhealthy amount of Winwood blasting out of his room; no sign of the caterer, period. Mac’s not some kind of nerd, but he’s lived with Dennis long enough to put two and two together.

It’s fine. He knows what helps. He scrubs the egg trash all away, straightens out the whole place, gets everything looking just right for whenever Dennis is ready to come out. He’s not going to ask questions. He’ll just tell him what went right, between the venue and the boat gays and the way Dennis has clearly weeded out yet another inferior caterer. They’re winning at marriage; that hasn’t changed. Mac will look at different caterers in the morning.

* * *

“So my mom,” says Mac, and Dennis scribbles it down on the flipchart. “The waitress, obviously. Cricket?”

Dennis screws up his face a little bit. “Really, dude?”

“Like we said,” Mac points out, “we don’t have a very deep bench.”

They really don’t, and it’s a problem. Specifically, the problem is that Dennis wants a five-star wedding to be remembered for centuries or whatever, and there are about five non-Gang individuals in Philly who don’t hate their guts to the point of actively plotting revenge. “Okay,” says Dennis, and exhales through his teeth. “Fine. What about -- Christ, I don’t know. What about Artemis?”

“Oh, definitely,” Mac agrees, and Dennis makes another note on the chart. “Absolute hard yes, dude, and I’ll tell you why. Number one--” He counts off on his hand. “Surprisingly reliable weed hookup, and number two -- pretty much always down to rage. Plus she’ll keep Frank busy, so he doesn’t try to bang Mrs Kelly at the reception.”

Dennis looks unimpressed. “We’re inviting Mrs Kelly?”

“It’s less about _inviting_ Mrs Kelly,” he points out, “and more that Mrs Kelly will follow my mom wherever she goes, because Mrs Kelly looks up to my mom as a protector and, yes, a role model. Of course, this is taking into consideration the absence of my dad, who will not be able to attend because of bullshit prison rules about furlough.”

For a moment, Dennis looks like he’s about to say something -- but just for a moment, and then he adds Mrs Kelly’s name to their list. “Sure,” he says. “Okay.”

“What about your family, though, dude?” Mac asks, as Dennis taps the pen thoughtfully against the edge of the chart. “You have all Barbara’s relatives, all those cousins and shit! You could get some of them, you know, fill out a couple seats--”

“Bro.” Dennis raises his eyebrows. He thinks he’s being stern, except he’s totally not; he has to raise them both because he can’t do them one at a time, like Mac can. “Do you _want_ to have to circle the gay church in table salt so the Snail can’t get in?”

Which, yeah, he totally doesn’t. If they can’t keep this venue then they’re definitely going to end up getting married at Paddy’s, which might be the straw that breaks the back of this whole scheme. “Okay, okay,” he says. They’re too deep in this thing for Mac to ask too much and screw it up. “No more family.”

“Well,” says Dennis, and clicks the cap back onto the marker pen. “Whatever. This isn’t about a bunch of assholes who’d be terrible guests anyway. This is about us, Mac. You and me.”

Something goes all fluttery and weird in Mac’s stomach; he wavers, tapping his fingers too quickly on the bar. It’s sort of sticky. They absolutely cannot get married here. “Maybe,” he says, and looks over at the bottles on the wall. “Maybe Frank was right? I mean, don’t get me wrong, he is gross as shit and his advice is the worst, but -- is the courthouse such a bad idea? Like, really?”

“Mac,” says Dennis, and there is something verging on anger in his voice. “Jesus Christ. The least you can do is look at me when you’re saying all this dumb shit.”

The last few beers must be going down badly. He turns around.

“I don’t know,” he says. He feels like he’s in a video game, trying to get across a minefield without a map. There’s got to be a way to figure out Dennis’s angle; he just doesn’t know what it is yet. “Is it dumb? Like, if you’re only into this because you want to jam it in the waitress’s face, maybe we don’t even need to go through with it. She’ll totally forget we said anything about it, she’s so stupid -- and even if she doesn’t, her opinion doesn’t mean dick.”

“Are you chickening out on me?” demands Dennis, hands on his hips. “What the hell kind of badass are you?”

Mac shakes his head. “I’m not chickening out! That’s bullshit, dude. I just…”

Dennis tilts his head, jaw set.

“I just don’t know why you’re so hot about this,” he says, and gestures vaguely at the flipchart. “We only know like three people anyway, and you literally never cared about the waitress saying shit before now. And now it’s like you’re putting a whole bunch of effort into this, and don’t get me wrong, dude, I totally appreciate it. I just… I guess I didn’t think you’d end up wanting to stick with it?”

“That’s the way it _works_ ,” says Dennis, with a sort of world-weary patience that looks totally wrong on him. Like a Tommy Bahama shirt, or crying. “You want to get a scheme off the ground, then you gotta put the work in, Mac! You gotta really follow through. I’m not putting my name to something half-assed and shitty, okay, so get it together. I can’t do it without you, dude.”

Which is really just a bunch of words -- just Dennis saying things like he even knows what he’s talking about. He’s nowhere with this. “Fine,” he says, and lifts his hands in the air, and Dennis’s expression resolves into a grin. “I got you, man. Let’s do this.”

* * *

Turns out planning a wedding is pretty much an extended fight. They both want the duster, is the big one; Mac doesn’t actually have a suit jacket, so it’s kind of not even a question, except Dennis is determined that it’d go more better with his fancy-ass bullshit clothes, and the whole thing escalates until half of Dennis’s wardrobe is on the apartment floor and Mac’s throat hurts from screaming. Even when they’ve shut themselves in their rooms, they get into a sub-fight about whose music can be loudest, until the assholes downstairs hammer on the door and threaten to call the cops.

In the morning, they avoid each other’s eyes, and they step carefully around the shirts strewn across the room. “I’ll make you a deal,” Dennis says, a rough edge to his voice and some serious panda-looking smudges around his eyes. “You get the duster. If -- and _only_ if -- I get to do your make-up for the ceremony. Make no mistake, Mac, you’re gonna ruin that duster with your white-trash bullshit. The _least_ you can do is let me run damage control.”

Mac folds his arms, scowls, considers. “I don’t _love_ it,” he says, at length. “It’s really gonna undermine the vibe of the duster, dude.”

“Tough shit,” snaps Dennis. “Okay? It’s this or nothing. And make no mistake, Mac, I will _absolutely_ wear it with lipstick if you’re not prepared to compromise.”

Dennis spends the whole afternoon smugly sorting through his make-up shit, scribbling notes on what looks like a pencil sketch of Mac’s face. It’s whatever. Mac got what he wanted. He’s going to walk down the aisle in the duster and look totally badass in front of God, which means he definitely won.

“You know what else,” he says, when they’ve finally found a caterer willing to tolerate Dennis -- it’s a rush, a genuine triumph, even if it is one of Frank’s apparently endless roster of pig guys. “I heard that if your spouse goes to court, like for crimes or whatever, the lawyers legally can’t make you testify against them? Think about all your bench warrants, dude! I’m, like, the only witness for that shit.”

“Because you’re always there!” Dennis lights up with a grin. It lifts his whole face, like the sun’s come out, even though there hasn’t been sunlight in Paddy’s in all the years they’ve owned it. “That’s _genius_ , Mac. I’m starting to think there’s a reason why gay people were so quick about marrying each other when the law came in -- I mean, the legal benefits alone are frankly excessive, but the _social_ implications are almost more exciting. You know what I mean? You can appear _totally_ unthreatening to maybe ninety per cent of women; you can get on my gym membership for real; we’re already seeing how easy it’s gonna be to throw assholes like the waitress off our backs…”

“And taxes!” Mac exclaims, and slams a hand triumphantly down on the bar. “Think about the taxes, dude.”

Dennis downs the last of his beer and offers a solemn, knowing nod. “Well, _naturally_ the taxes,” he says, which means he knows jack shit about taxes, which on the back of like five beers is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to Mac. “I assumed we were taking that for granted.”

“And lapdances,” adds Mac. It’s almost an afterthought. “The couple ones.”

For the first time since the caterer left, Dennis frowns. “I mean, sure, but -- dude. Why would we go to straight strip joints anymore?”

This is the other thing about planning a wedding: it’s so unexpectedly, weirdly great to keep remembering that he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. “I dunno,” he says. “Maybe they do couple dances at the gay ones too?” Dennis looks at him with a sort of startled interest, tilting his head like he’s really thinking it through, and Mac’s so pleased with himself that the _we_ doesn’t register, not for hours, until it’s too late to ask what it meant.

* * *

It doesn’t come up until a couple days before what they’re calling the Big Day. It’s not original, but it gets to the point; it’s about the only scheme they’ve got going right now, which says something, considering the gang. Just the other day, Dee got wasted, swiped Frank’s credit card, and bought enough dresses for maybe ten weddings. She looks like a bird in all of them, but Mac’s got to admire her commitment to their scam. Likewise Charlie, who pulled him aside at the bar a week back and promised solemnly not to put pigeon in the wedding cake. (“Did he mean pigeons that would fly out when we cut the cake?” demanded Dennis, when Mac told him about it. “Or was he seriously considering feeding us the meat of the pigeon at our own goddamn wedding?” Like Mac had any more of an idea than he did.)

They’ve been busy, is the point. They’ve been so busy that it catches Mac all the way by surprise when Dennis, staring right through the TV screen on pre-wedding movie night, says “We’ve gotta practice, right?”

Mac grabs the remote and hits pause. No way is he missing the dong shot for Dennis’s wedding crisis. “Practice what, dude?” he asks, and Dennis looks away from the screen, glaring at him like he’s deliberately missed the point.

“The goddamn _kiss_ , asshole,” he snaps, and all at once Mac is teetering on the edge of a sheer drop down; he’s going to fall, but there’s no way to tell which way, or what’s going to be waiting at the bottom of that cliff. “It’s the centrepiece of the wedding. We’ve got everything else squared away, obviously, but if we biff the kiss then we may as well just throw the whole thing out, because we’ll look like idiots and the waitress will _absolutely_ make a big deal of it. I mean, Christ, Mac, are we even _committed_ to this?”

Dennis isn’t subtle. Mac can see him mashing at the buttons he’s been mashing this whole time -- the only difference is that now there’s something weirdly, uncomfortably stressed about it. Like his hands are sweaty. “I mean,” Mac says, stalling, trying not to think about his own palms hot against his thighs. “Yeah? I guess? I kind of wanna finish the movie before we get into any more wedding shit, dude.”

“You _guess_?” Dennis hits a high note. “Goddamn it. Okay. I swear to God, Mac, we are neither of us getting to that dong scene until we’ve figured this out, because I _refuse_ to compromise the greatest day of my life for your -- understandable, yes, but _way less important_ fixation on Thundergun’s dick. Get over here, asshole.”

He says it like they aren’t already sitting really close on the couch. Dangerously close, though it never seemed all that dangerous before. Dennis’s face is right there, flecked with concealer, shining a little with sweat. He’s biting his lip; it slips out from between his teeth a little redder, a little wetter than before. Mac’s vision has narrowed to nothing more than Dennis; the rest of the apartment is in greyscale, like a shitty old movie, like something that barely even matters anymore. It isn’t about the wedding, he thinks, as Dennis’s hand curls at the back of his neck. It was maybe about the wedding for like half a minute at the start, but now -- _now_ \--

Dennis kisses like he dances. It’s not smooth; it’s weird and jerky and there’s a _lot_ of spit. But it’s right, the way kisses haven’t ever been right before. When they part for air, Mac takes a breath like it’s the first breath he’s ever taken, and he chases that rightness until they’re sprawled across the couch, their bodies pressed tight together, Dennis’s hands hot and insistent inside Mac’s shirt. They absolutely cannot do this at the altar -- but they can do it, he realises, and stifles a groan against Dennis’s mouth, for the rest of their lives after the altar, whenever, as long as they want.

“You were scamming me this whole time,” he murmurs sleepily, when they’ve recovered long enough to crawl into Dennis’s bed. “You’re such an asshole, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah,” mutters Dennis, but his cheeks are pink, and there’s something suspiciously like a smile pressed into his pillow. “It’s your own fault for being gullible as shit.”

Maybe not gullible, he thinks, not really. Love is patient, and all that shit. But Mac knows when to let Dennis think he’s won.

* * *

The wedding is about as small and shitty as weddings ever get. His mom shows up, and trudges outside in the middle of the vows to hack a butt on the church steps. Mrs Kelly shows up, and cries the whole time even though neither of them is actually her kid. The goddamn waitress _doesn’t_ show up, which is classic waitress, totally ungrateful that they bothered to shoot her an invite. Sometimes Mac doesn’t know why he even tries.

“Does it mean we lost,” he asks Dennis, when they’ve found their way back to Paddy’s and set the jukebox to non-stop Winwood, “if she didn’t even show? Did she beat us at getting married?”

Dennis is six shots deep and sweating through his suit. “Are you kidding me?” he slurs, and hooks his arms around Mac’s neck. “Look at us, Mac. We’re fuckin’ unbeatable.”

His breath smells like tequila and garbage. Mac has never loved anyone so absolutely, like his heart is a sun and everything in his body is brilliant light, like the whole world is turning on the place where their eyes meet. It’s awesome. Being married is awesome, and for every place their bodies press together he thinks _thank God, thank God, thank God_.


End file.
